


You're a perfect poorly wired circuit

by sarcasticbones



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gender or Sex Swap, Genderfuck, Girl!Derek, Girl!Stiles, Kissing, Oral Sex, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-06 07:42:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10329536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasticbones/pseuds/sarcasticbones
Summary: Derek needs Stiles to break into the Sheriff's station. Kind of. Stiles and Derek are girls. They also get it on.This is a gender swapped AU, so ... er ... proceed with care? (details in the notes).





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aerialiste](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerialiste/gifts).



“No.”  
“Come on, Stiles, please?” Scott pulls out the puppy eyes, and despite of years of training, they’re still really hard to resists. Stiles has been back for two days. Two days! Why is there already a supernatural emergency that needs her involvement? She’s not even in the loop anymore.  
And the fact that she hasn’t seen D in a year, and might be a little worried about what it will feel like, when she does, has nothing to do with it. There might have been a torch, lit way back when in high school, but the torch is no longer carried. Nope. No torch.  
Stiles is a well adjusted, kind-of-adult now. She has the baby-queer undercut, the pink tips, the gender knot in bi colors and the apostrophe tattooed on her body to prove it. Fight the system, be recognizable to your people. Because she has agency over her body, thank you very much. Conventional beauty standards are a tool of patriarchy anyway. She briefly wonders if D still has that same long, shiny, black hair. 

“So, D will pick you up in like … half an hour, ok?”  
“Scott,” Stiles groans.  
“Thank you Stiles, love you!” Scott says and the Facetime window blips out. Because Scott didn’t even show up to make this request. He has a shift. At the hospital. He’s important like that. Granted, it’s an animal hospital, but still. 

Stiles sighs, and stomps down the stairs. Sets the phone on the counter to make a PBJ, revels in the satisfying, deep purple wiggle of grape jelly. There is no way she is dealing with this without some sustenance. Mouth thick with a delicious swirl of Skippy’s and grape, she turns back to her phone and stares. If they need her help, it must mean that Stiles has to participate in breaking the law. Which must mean that D wants to break something out of, or into the Sheriff’s station. The Sheriff’s station, where her dad, the Sheriff, works. Her phone beeps and flashes.

“Forgot to ask. If you still have those cloned cards, can you bring them?” Scott asks.

Peanut butter sticks to the roof of Stiles’ mouth. The sandwich alone is clearly not going to cut it. Stiles has to bring out the big anxiety management guns. She runs her finger across the phone screen … she should have like … twenty minutes. She can work with twenty minutes. Easy.  
So he stomps back upstairs and slams the bedroom door.  
Don’t judge, ok. Stop. Judging. It would be a bullshit judgment anyway. Like you’d ever say anything if Stiles was a dude. No you wouldn’t. Because dudes seem to have a blanket permission to wank at all life circumstance, but Stiles knows for a fact from her Human Sexuality class, that girls do it too. It is normal. Stiles is perfectly normal, ok. Although normal is a normative concept on it’s own. Fuck normal.  
Also, Stiles will have you know, that she doesn’t smoke, because weed interacts weirdly with her Adderall. And she doesn’t drink, because she never really got into it. Getting a fake ID was difficult, when you’re the Sheriff’s kid, and she never had the looks to be one of those girls that other people buy drinks for. Also her dad has a long standing, even if on again - off again, relationship with Jack and Jose, which kind of reduces her desire to hit that. So she has always had to rely on … ah … other anxiety management techniques. 

She’s just recovering, waiting for the stars to stop dancing in front of her eyes, jeans barely pulled up and still unzipped, a happy, hazy hum of her blood slowing her brain to something nearly manageable, when she hears a car turn into the driveway. And it’s not the cruiser, because Stiles knows what the cruiser sounds like. So it can only be D. Her heart hammers against her ribcage, before she remembers that she is kind-of-adult, and has agency and there is no torch. No torch anywhere in sight! She drags in a couple of deep belly breaths, reminds herself that she is perfectly relaxed because she’s just had an acceptably good orgasm, and after all, she has no fucks to spare. Nope. Not a single one. She’s fresh out. 

She checks her face in the mirror and grabs the cloned cards from the back corner of the bottom shelf of the bedside table. That is where she hides all of her contraband, right under the tampons and the vibrator, because should her dad ever get an inclination to check, he’d sure as hell abort and retreat at that.  
Peeking out of the window, she sees the Camaro idling in front of her house. It looks the same, still black, still sleek. Still somehow managing to look both menacing and impatient, which is quite a feat for an inanimate object.  
Anthropomorphizing.  
It’s a thing Stiles does. A nerves thing. It also used to be one of the words on Scott’s SAT list. Because Stiles never needed a list, thank you very much. The windows are tinted on the Camaro, so Stiles can’t see D, but she would wager her left kidney that D can see her.

She briefly fantasizes about not going. About locking the door and hiding out upstairs, but D fucking honks, and Stiles can see the curtains move across the road in Mrs. Weatherly’s kitchen, which means Mrs. Weatherly is getting agitated, and an agitated Mrs. Weatherly comes over and calls her dad. Not necessarily in that order.

“Oh my god,” Stiles mutters as she runs down the stairs: “don’t get your panties in a twist.”

D revs the engine. Because she’s a dick. Apparently having one is not a prerequisite to being one.  
“Stop it,” Stiles says, getting in the car, shoving her backpack between her knees: “Mrs. Weatherly will call the cops.” She plants her feet and cants her hips, digs the cloned keycards out of her back pocket  
“Who’s Mrs. Weatherly?” D asks, taking the cards. The question kind of surprises Stiles and makes her look straight at D, which is a mistake of epic proportions, because D has either had a change of heart about personal style, or has deemed this particular mission worthy of a costume. Instead of her customary head to toe black, D is wearing a, frankly, still black, zippered jacket that hugs her like a jealous lover. The sleeves are rolled up. There are coils of braided black leather around her tanned, delicate wrists. But what’s worse, she’s wearing some kind of an extremely short, badass looking black skirt, with snaps and zippers, and long leather boots. The kind that come up to her knees. She also has her hair down in a ridiculous, lush cascade of black. And she is wearing eye make up. Not any eye makeup, no. She’s earing winged eyeliner. Sure, Stiles has seen her wear make up before. She has even seen her in a skirt before, D can effortlessly rock both, and probably an evening gown with stiletto heels, but Stiles has never been so close to it. Close up, she’s only seen D in various murder ninja outfits, which while tight and bad for Stiles weak, fluttering heart, are mostly manageable, because the amount of exposed skin is minimal. This endless expanse of soft seeming, naked thigh, framed by the leather of the Camaro’s seat and the leather of the boot is just too much for Stiles to handle. 

She swallows. Swallows again. Rubs the heel of her palm into her eye socket, remembers that she too, is wearing eye make up, and jerks the hand away from her face, towards D’s devastating naked thigh. All in a helpless flail. 

D’s nostrils flare as her face morphs into what Stiles, during high school, christened Face #2. 

Back then she spent a lot of time thinking about D’s face. Her careful observations led to a three pronged model of facial expressions, which, to an untrained eye, might all have looked the same. Proof: Scotty used to say she only has a resting mean face. Which is also proof of the fact that Scotty has always been too nice, because it was absolutely a resting bitch face. Just a very beautiful one.

But Stiles has a trained eye. Had a trained eye. Because of reasons that had to do with Scott being bitten by D’s deranged uncle, D proceeding to become Scott’s alpha; the whole concept of a girl Alpha entering Stiles’ consciousness; Scott having a girlfriend, who encroached on all of his Stiles-time; Stiles being the only person with any taste in music and TV shows in the entirety of BHHS; and Stiles going through a sexual awakening in the space and solitude afforded by all of the above. An awakening she had no one to talk about, because Scott was with Allison all the time, or being whisked off by a reluctant D in a sleek black car. Sometimes, to have knowledge imparted on him, and more often than not, to drag along as D attempted to unfuck yet another completely fucked up situation. And Scotty would have probably been weirded out anyway. For Scott, Stiles was and is an amorphous, sexless, genderless blob of friendship. Having to acknowledge that Stiles has functional girl parts would have probably traumatized him. Even without knowing that she wants to rub those girl parts against D. er … wanted to. She’s fine now. Totally.

Anyway.  
D’s face, right. 

It’s pretty extraordinary. Both in terms of the limited facial expressions, and in terms of … well … just in face terms, ok? Stiles read this article for one of her Aesthetics classes that there’s a statistically proven golden ratio symmetry of facial features, and she’s pretty sure that D’s face would get a perfect score. She has these high cheekbones; a delicate, straight nose; thick, perfectly shaped black eyebrows, and prismatic eyes of gray and blue and green and gold. Framed by thick, black lashes. And her mouth. Her mouth makes Stiles do a lot of involuntary stuff. Like … swallow and … rub her thighs together. It’s pink and soft. But many mouths are pink and soft. Hell, Stiles has been told that her own is. Granted it’s mostly been by gross drunk men, who then offer to put their dicks in it, but still. Evidence is evidence. Stiles’ mouth has been called pink and soft. But D’s has an upper lip with the planet’s most precise Cupid’s bow and a sharp contour that somehow contains all that uncontainable pinkness in a way that makes Stiles think of bursting fruit and sticky sweet juice that runs down your wrists to your elbows. To match that upper lip, D has a lower lip that, for all intents and purposes, pouts. But not in an obvious, obscene way. No. D’s is somehow elegant while pornographic. As long as you only look at her lips, that is. Because as much as D is gorgeous, she has also always been mean as a snake and all three of her facial expressions peel skin. Which sadly does nothing to deter Stiles’ fantasies. Did nothing to deter them. Because she doesn’t have them anymore. And if she did, it would be fine, censoring one’s sexual fantasies is a tool of patriarchy. But yeah, she used to worry about herself. Think she should just try and like a nice boy. But nice boys are boring and D used to be the burning house she wanted to live in. Horribly gauche pun unintended.

But right, D’s three facial expressions. According to Stiles’ high school research they are as follows:

Face #1 is bored and so-so over everything. It’s kind of a robotic accomplishment. D’s divinely proportioned features sort of click into an icy mask, where she communicates via slow, condescending blinks of her jet black lashes. This one she used to wear 85% of the time and it probably cut down the number of people hitting on her, or trying to become her friend, or in any way engaging with her, by at least two thirds. Only the blind, insane, or terminally drunk braved that face. And Stiles gets that being the only one to tragically survive a catastrophe tends to put a damper on one’s joy de vivre, or sequester one firmly in the defensive, but that shit’s not natural. It’s not even natural for the supernatural. No one can be such an ice queen. Except, apparently D. She’s an Ice Queen Extraordinaire. At least she used to be, Stiles doesn’t know anymore.

Face #2 - the one that just made an appearance - is annoyed. It is ‘Face #1 with minimally flared nostrils. Stiles used to think it also came with clenched teeth, but she never had anything to back that up with. D’s cheeks remained smooth, and her lips in that effortless ‘I was born that way’ pout. That face used to dominate 10% of the time. Stiles quickly noticed that whenever D and her had to share space, share air, be in the general vicinity of each other, D’s face seemed to almost immediately morph from #1 into #2. Stiles was plenty annoying, no surprise there. But D was generally unperturbed by … everything. She was condescending and mean, her silences stone cold and judgmental. She’d use her soft, bedroom voice sparingly, but mostly to express her disappointment or to be sarcastic in such subtle ways that it even took Stiles a moment to realize it. Stiles should have been an inconsequential annoyance on her scale of annoyances. Her family burned to death. Her uncle was a mass-murdering psychopath. She gave a group of uncontrollable, idiotic, sophomoric teenagers superpowers. Chris Argent wanted to cut her into ribbons. So it used to be confusing to Stiles that her mere existence triggered Annoyed Face. 

Finally, there is livid. It’s face #2, with a brief, instantly tamped down flash in the eyes, and a furrow of her flawless brow for a fragment of a moment. It usually precluded her wolfing out and tearing people apart, but it’s enough to make you pee your pants without the supernatural appearance of teeth. Stiles had been on the receiving end of that face once. Ok, twice. First, when she told her dad that D is the murderer, and second, when she tried to tell Scott that he didn’t need D’s stinking pack anwyay, because Stiles was his pack. Stiles used to think that Face #3 is how D got everything done. How she got people to join her pack. How she got County to stop trying to tear down her house. How she got the landlord to rent her the loft, even though she never had a job. She probably just intimidated people into bending to her will.

So now, Stiles is sitting in the car with D, flailing and freaking out about the strength and smoothness of her summer-tan thigh, confronted by Face #2. 

“Your outfit,” tumbles out of her mouth as she, unfortunately and completely involuntarily, points at D’s thigh.  
D arches an eyebrow.  
“It’s just that,” Stile says and gesticulates towards D in a more encompassing manner: “it’s not a very practical outfit for a prison heist.”  
“It’s not a heist,” D says. Then zeroes in on Stiles’ flailing fingers, and her nostrils flare even more, and this is Face #2 on steroids. Stiles supposes she should consider herself lucky they’re not in Face #3 territory.  
“Don’t get peanut butter on my seats,” D says with a pointed look. It takes Stiles a moment to understand what she means, and then another moment to realize what else she was just doing with those same fingers, and it feels like her whole body goes live like a wire. Mortification bends through her and she flushes a deep, pathetic red. Because apparently D was smelling her, when her nostrils flared. What if she’s always been smelling her? Oh god, please smite Stiles now, because what the fuck has she been smelling on Stiles? Can she smell that Stiles wants to rub herself up against D even when she’s being mean to her? Especially when she’s being mean to her?

D plucks a pair of aviators from the dash, puts them on, and pulls out of the driveway. Her driving is fast, but meticulous, and she stares straight ahead.  
“Stop freaking out about it,” she says in a low, velvety voice. Not friendly, but not meant to cut either.  
Stiles gags on her own spit in desperation, feels herself flush even harder. Is D being nice to her?

“Wait,” Stiles says when D pulls into the blind spot of the parking lot in front of the Sheriff’s station.  
“What do you mean it’s not a heist?” Because some of Stiles’ brain cells have apparently survived the mortification.  
“I mean it’s not a heist,” D says, leaning half over Stiles’ lap to yank open the glove compartment and pull out a small black cosmetics bag.  
“We’ve already done a heist here, don’t you remember?”  
“I remember,” Stiles mumbles, but she’s not really paying attention - she’s about to melt into the seat, because the warm weight of D’s breasts is on her knees.  
“You will go in,” D says, getting back in her own seat, flicking the visor down and sliding the mirror open: “and distract all of the cops in the back, including your dad. There’s a box of donuts on the back seat.”  
“Whoa, whoa, why?” Stiles hand shoots out again, to … she doesn’t know what for, to grab D by the shoulder?  
D catches her wrist mid-air without turning her head. The same fucking hand form before.  
“Can I have my hand back,” Stiles squeaks in a tiny voice.  
“Don’t know, can you control it?” D says. And Stiles is not sure, because she can’t look at her, but it sounds … teasing, almost … full of … innuendo like … so, Stiles can’t help it, her eyes snap back to D. An epic mistake. Again. Because D let’s go of her hand to unzip her jacket. She’s wearing a white, gossamer thin tank top underneath. No bra. Stiles doesn’t even pretend to not stare at the round, caramel colored swell of D’s breasts and the dark hint of her nipples.  
“I need some time to look at the computer in the front,” D says, opening the cosmetics bag.  
“But Parrish is in the front!” Stiles exclaims, only distracted from D applying lipstick by her complete outrage about this plan.  
“And I will distract him,” D says, finishing her top lip with flourish.  
Stiles scoffs, but D does her bottom lip. Her mouth is now deep red, and Stiles stares, helplessly, as the lipstick sticks when D smacks her lips.  
“How?” she asks, voice breathy and weak. She doesn’t really want to know how D distracts dudes when she looks like that.  
“By talking to him.”  
D pulls her tank top down to reveal more cleavage, rubs her fingers over her chest, teasing her own nipples into tight peaks, like Stiles is not even here. They’re clearly visible through the fabric now.  
Heat pools in the pit of Stiles belly, makes he clench her toes.  
“Why do you have to look like that for talking?” she can’t help but meep.  
D turns her entire body towards Stiles. Gives Stiles her full attention. Looks at Stiles through slightly slitted cat eyes of green and gold; runs the tip of her pink tongue on the edge of her top teeth, around the sharp point of her still human canine.  
“Don’t you know anything about men, Stiles?” she asks in a lilting tone.  
Stiles stops breathing, feels herself grow slick, despairs, but only vaguely, about what D must smell.  
“Distraction,” D breathes, leans towards Stiles over the center console, chest pushed out between her own arms, never once severing the eye contact.  
Stiles is still not breathing, and her brain feels like it’s about to drip out of her ear.  
“What?” she whispers.  
“You like girls, Stiles?” D asks, tilting her head a little, hair falling everywhere, a loose strand finding it’s way between her breasts.  
“What?” Stiles whispers again.  
“Because you seem to like me,” D continues, rocks herself from side to side a little, the soft, ample flesh of her boobs moving with the motion.  
“What?” Stiles says again, and there’s no voice left in the whisper, just air accompanying the barest movement of Stiles’ mouth. Her sanity leaves without even waving goodbye.  
“I’m going to distract him, Stiles,” D says, leaning back, taking another look in the mirror: “because he’s more likely to go look for some long lost evidence in the evidence room for me then. And do it thoroughly. While I take a look at his computer.”  
Stiles drags in a noisy breath of air.  
Oh.  
Distraction.  
Right.  
Using her sexual wiles on unsuspecting Parrish. It will probably work. Boys are dumb when distracted. And this was obviously just a demonstration, which means that so is Stiles. A box of rocks.  
“Don’t forget the donuts.” D says.  
“Okay,” Stiles mumbles, and reaches back to grab them.  
“Don’t mope,” she adds, when Stiles has the door open and one foot out.  
Stiles doesn’t answer.  
So D reaches over, wraps her fingers around Stiles’ chin, and pulls her back in: “it’s ok to like girls.”  
Stiles blinks and misses the moment she closes those last inches of distance, but suddenly there are lips covering hers, a sticky drag from the corner of her mouth to the center, a clever, slick tongue insistent on the seam of her mouth, until it parts in surprise. Then a hot slither tongue against tongue.  
D breaks the kiss, pulls back to snap the visor again; rubs some stray lipstick from the corner of her mouth. Stiles might have an aneurysm or two. She’s not sure. So she clutches the donuts and wobbles across the parking lot on jello legs.  
“Honey,” her dad says, happy to see her, or the box of donuts. Then frowns at her face: “you’ve got some … I think your uh … is make-up supposed to look like that?” Because John’s learned to not just assume Stiles is not supposed to look the way she looks. Because blindly bending to the heteronormative norms of femininity is a tool of patriarchy, dad. Sheesh.  
But Stiles’ dad is pointing at her mouth - which is, Stiles sees, when she fishes out her phone to check - smeared with red. 

D sends her a text, when she’s done, which makes Stiles choke on donut a little. She didn’t even know D had her number. But there it is, black on white, well, white on blue, but whatever: “done, come out.”  
So Stiles hugs her dad and goes out. She only remembers she could have not - she could have just hung around, waited until her dad gets off work, or pestered one of the deputies for a ride - when she’s opening the Camaro door.  
So she plops down and crosses her arms, avoids making eye contact.  
“Thanks,” D says.  
Which is when Stiles remembers that there was a reason for this whole thing.  
“Did you get what you needed?” she asks.  
“Yeah,” D says, but doesn’t start the car: “you ok?” she adds.  
So Stiles has to look at her after all. She’s tied her hair up in a ponytail, but a couple of strands have slipped loose and are framing her face. She’s still wearing the lipstick though, and there’s still all that cleavage, and all that thigh.  
“Why’d you kiss me?” Stiles blurts out.  
“I wanted to,” D says: “should I not have?”  
“What did you wanna kiss me for?” Stiles demands stubbornly.  
“I thought I’d enjoy it,” D says and starts the car.  
Stiles swallows. Stares out of the window for a couple of blocks, realizes they’re not driving towards her dad’s house, but towards the loft.  
“Did you?” she finally asks, voice quiet and full of breath.  
“Very much,” D says, taking her turns sharp, not easing off the accelerator much.  
Stiles turns her entire body towards D, stares at her without trying to hide it in the least. Tries to figure out if there’s a way this can bite her. Maybe D is possessed? No, that seems kind of a stretch. She’s also way, way … like way above pranking Stiles. Could she be lying? Is there some sort of a strategically viable reason for her to lead Stiles on?  
“Has anyone told you you’ve got issues?” D asks after letting Stiles stare for a while.  
“Repeatedly,” Stiles says, and turns to sit the right way.  
D looses a splinter of a sound that Stiles is tempted to define as a chuckle, but has nothing to compare it to.  
“You coming up?” D asks, pulling into the wasteland that is her building’s parking lot.  
“Yeah,” Stiles decides, and swears-swears-swears that D smiles. Smirks even.  
“You sure?” D checks.  
“Are you?” Stiles challenges.  
“Beyond a shadow of a doubt,” D says and smiles with all of her teeth. Stiles sits - blinded, dumbfounded - as D shuts off the ignition, gets out of the car, bangs her door, walks around to Stiles’ and knocks on her window.  
“Okay,” Stiles says, mostly to herself. “Okay.”  
“This might be a bad idea,” D says, opening Stiles’ door: “if you need a pep talk.”  
“Not a pep talk,” Stiles clarifies, getting out of the car so fast her head spins, starts walking across the parking lot in determined steps that D can obviously and effortlessly keep up with.  
“It’s a reality check,” Stiles adds.  
D smirks again. Stiles would tell her smug’s not a good look on her, if it weren’t such a blatant lie. Because it is. Such a good look.  
“Oh my god,” Stiles tells herself again.  
D pulls her hair when she kisses her this time. Knots a fist into the back of her skull, and uses the fistful to yank Stiles closer.  
“Oh my god,” Stiles repeats, as they stumble into the loft. A dam breaks, a boundary is crossed. Stiles surges back at D. She’s an arrow, a heat seeking missile. She’s never ever going to stop.  
D says something into the wet heat of their mouths, but Stiles doesn’t really care, she’s not stopping unless someone makes her. She’s not stopping unless the roof falls on their heads. She finds her hands on D’s shoulders, slides them down to cup her breasts through that spider web of a tank top. Licks the surprised noise out of D’s mouth.  
D walks them towards the living area, but they collide into a wall.  
“Couch,” D says, as Stiles slides her hands under the tank top. The sensation of skin skin skin skin skin skin zaps through her.  
She thinks she smears a: “don’t care, let me,” into fabric and skin, as she drags the top out of the way and latches her mouth over a nipple.  
She hears a thunk that might be D’s head against the wall; feels D move her arms to pull the top off and throw it. Feels D’s fingers on her skull, pulling her in like a tide.  
Stiles licks a wide, wet stripe across D’s caramel skin to get from one nipple to the other, rubs greedy fingers over her ribs, squeezes her hips.  
“Can I?” she asks, half crazy with want, sliding down D’s body.  
“Wait,” D says, grabs her elbows, keeps her in a weird limbo between standing up and kneeling: “we don’t have to, don’t you want to take it slow..er?”  
“No!” Stiles feels high, and is pretty sure she looks high too, but as long as it doesn’t turn D off, she’s fine with looking wild. She’s fine. So fine. She wants to take it so fast. Speed of light.  
“No?” D asks, fingers still wrapped tightly around Stiles elbows.  
“Don’t want to take it slow. I want to take it fast. So unless you want to take it slow, please can I … just … let me?”  
Something in D’s face shifts, Stiles, with her finely tuned ability to catalogue all of D’s expressions is lost in what’s happening, but it is neither Face #1, Face #2 or Face #3. It’s something … softer but also kind of feral. Something that amps Stiles’ desire until it rattles her teeth.  
“Please say I can,” she demands, and D, the asshole, releases her elbows and twirls one of her hands in the most regal “be my guest” twirl Stiles has ever seen. Shifts her feet apart and plants them as Stiles goes down like timber, banging her knees on the floor with conviction.  
“Ow,” she mumbles, rubbing her palms up D’s goddess thighs, pushing her fingers underneath the hem of that ridiculous skirt, pushing the whole thing up.  
“Shh,” D grabs the skirt, pulls it up over her hips and tucks the hem in the waistband. Looks at Stiles with glinting predator eyes, as Stiles hooks her fingers into the waistband of her no nonsense black boy shorts and pulls them down down until they slide out of vision.  
“Fuck, oh my god, fuck,” it’s a sound so close to a sob Stiles will definitely have to be embarrassed about it later. Later. Not right now. Right now she rubs her mouth and nose across a patch of dark, trimmed hair; sinks lower, spreading her knees wide until she’s basically sitting on the floor. She angles her neck and opens her mouth over the naked, wet skin of D’s cunt. Lets the taste explode over her tongue. Revels in the sensations of D parting under her tongue, the feel of her muscles jumping underneath Stiles’ fingers, the sharp pull of hair as D curses, and winds a hand up in her hair again. She eats at D with a wet, hungry mouth, until she’s pulled back and D angles her face up.  
“Easy,” D says, breathing hard. There’s a stripe of red, painted across her cheeks.  
“Look at me,” D adds.  
So Stiles peels her hands off D’s thighs, holds them up demonstratively before lowering them to her own. She scoots closer, as close as she can get, sticks her tongue out but keeps it broad and flat. She rubs the soft, warm center of it over D’s clit. Over. And over. And over. And over. Again. Never once severing eye contact.  
D’s orgasm face definitely deserves to be added to the catalogue.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so ... this one time months ago, my darling aerialiste said that she has basically gone so deep off dick that she doesn't even enjoy reading boy fic anyome. Which is a problem, right? This whole thing we've got going here is essentially a giant, magical mesh of dick fic. So we looked for gender swapped AUs, and concluded that while girl!Stiles or non-binary!Stiles is written, and written well; girl!Derek is rare and mostly unconvincing. (If you've read or written good girl!Derek, please share, recs are love).
> 
> So then I felt the need to do a character study. What is it that we find appealing about Derek, and what are the traits that make Derek Derek? And what happens when those are contextualized within conventional masculinity and femininity? Like ... physical violence and intimidation, while theoretically antisocial behaviors, do not make male characters less appealing (hey, just a messenger here, don't shoot, I'm just making observations, but I'm with ya, it's bullshit, burn the patriarchy). So what are the equivalent antisocial, yet not sexually disqualifying traits for women? There might have been a chart. I also might have done the same for Stiles. I'm a chart kind of a gal.
> 
> And then, when I felt I figured that out, I obviously had to write some pussy eating porn. As you do. 
> 
> Also aerialiste has to do A Difficult Thing right now, so it is her prize and her motivator. Because everybody knows that diamonds are bullshit, and all you need is some personally tailored porn.  
> I mean ... I hope it's personally tailored. She might hate it. Ugh. Help. 
> 
> I recommend listening to Julia Michael's "Issues". Title's from that song and also it's very femme and her voice is sex.


End file.
